Natalia woke to the insistent ringing of the phone. The clock read just before eight on an August Monday. Vitaly beside her grumbled and pulled the pillow over his head.
“Hello?” Natalia’s voice was hoarse with sleep.
“Natalya dear, it’s Valentina Ivanovna, your mother’s neighbor,” came the anxious voice of an elderly woman. “Sweetheart, be strong… Your mother… Last night her heart gave out. They called an ambulance, but it was too late…”
The phone slipped from Natalia’s hands. The room swam before her eyes. Mom. Mom was gone. Only three weeks ago they had spoken on the phone, and Yelena Pavlovna had complained about the heat, told her about the garden, about the new apple harvest…
“What is it?” Vitaly muttered without opening his eyes.
“Mom died,” Natalia said, not believing the words even as she spoke them. As if this were happening to someone else.
Her husband propped himself up on an elbow and looked at her. No emotion crossed his face.
“I see. My condolences.” He lay back down and turned to the wall.
Natalia got out of bed. Her legs were giving way, but she had to act. The funeral, the paperwork, organizing everything… Her head spun from the sheer number of tasks. She took a travel bag from the closet and began packing. A black dress, shoes, documents.
Vitaly sat up in bed and grabbed his phone. With a practiced swipe he opened his news feed and started scrolling.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked lazily without taking his eyes off the screen.
“To the village. To my mother’s funeral.”
“What village? That hole three hundred kilometers away?”
“Vitaly, my mother died. What does it matter where it is?”
He grimaced as if he’d heard something unpleasant.
“Listen, Natasha, I’ve got an important presentation this week. Management is coming in from Moscow. I can’t drop everything and haul myself out to the sticks.”
Natalia stopped, a blouse in her hands. She slowly turned to her husband.
“I’m not asking you to quit your job. But this is my mother’s funeral.”
“So what? The dead don’t care who shows up. And I have a career to build, by the way. We’ve got a mortgage, in case you forgot.”
Natalia continued packing in silence. In fifteen years of marriage she had forgiven Vitaly a lot—his temper, his stinginess, his refusal to help around the house. But now something inside her snapped. It was as if the last thread tying them together had worn down to nothing.
“How long will you be there?” Vitaly got out of bed and went to the kitchen.
“Three or four days. I have to arrange everything and handle the documents.”
“Just don’t spend too much. We’ve got enough expenses as it is.”
Natalia bit her lip. What expenses did he mean? His new eighty-thousand phone? Or those fishing trips with his buddies every weekend?
Two hours later, Natalia stood at the bus station with her travel bag in hand. Vitaly hadn’t even offered to drive her—said he was headed the other way. He didn’t hug her goodbye, didn’t say a single warm word.
“Let someone else dig the grave,” he tossed out at the end. “Let the locals handle it.”
On the bus, Natalia sat by the window and watched the fields rush past. August was hot that year; the grain had already been harvested, and the stubble shone gold in the sun. Mom loved this time of year. She always said August was the most generous month, when nature rewards people for all their labor.
Her seatmate—a plump woman with a kind face—looked at Natalia sympathetically.
“Heading on vacation?”
“To a funeral. My mother died.”
“May she rest in peace. Burying your parents is a heavy thing.”
Natalia nodded. She didn’t want to talk. Vitaly’s words kept circling in her head: “not about to haul myself out to the sticks.” How could he be so callous? Yelena Pavlovna had always treated him well. She sent homemade pickles, knitted warm socks. And when Vitaly broke his leg five years ago, Mom came to help—cooked, cleaned, nursed him for a whole month.
The village greeted her with silence and the smell of freshly cut grass. The family home stood on the edge of town, whitewashed with blue window frames. Every spring Mom renewed the whitewash; she said a house should look festive.
At the gate, Valentina Ivanovna met her.
“Natalya dear, oh my, how could this happen… Yelena Pavlovna never complained. She was full of life, out in the garden from morning till night.”
“Where is she now?”
“In the house. We washed and dressed her, the ladies and I. In that blue dress she loved. Petrovich made the coffin—he’s a fine craftsman.”
Natalia walked into the house. In the parlor stood the coffin lined with white fabric. Her mother lay peaceful, serene. The wrinkles had smoothed, and her face looked younger. Natalia knelt beside the coffin and wept. For the first time that morning she let herself cry.
They set the funeral for the next day. Natalia called their few relatives—a cousin from the district center, a nephew from the neighboring region. They all promised to come.
That evening Alexander Petrovich, the head of the village council, stopped by. An elderly man with a gray beard, he knew every resident and their affairs.
“Accept my condolences, Natalia Sergeevna. Yelena Pavlovna was a wonderful woman. The whole village respected her.”
“Thank you, Alexander Petrovich.”
“I’m here on some business related to your mother. There are a few documents.”
He took several papers from a battered folder.
“A year ago, Yelena Pavlovna came to me to certify a copy of her savings passbook. She had a bank deposit, in your name. She said she was saving for her daughter.”
Natalia stared at the document in surprise. Her mother had never mentioned a deposit. She lived modestly, counted every kopeck. A rural teacher’s pension wasn’t large.
“The sum is substantial,” Alexander Petrovich went on. “About eight hundred thousand. She’d been putting it away for many years, and the interest added up.”
Natalia was at a loss. Eight hundred thousand—for their family that was a huge amount. They could pay down part of the mortgage, do some renovations, buy a better car…
“Yelena Pavlovna also said she was leaving you the house. There’s a will with the notary in the district center. She thought of everything—wise woman.”
After he left, Natalia sat on the front steps for a long time. The sunset painted the sky pink. Somewhere in the distance cows were lowing as they came back from pasture. Mom loved evenings like this; she often sat here with a cup of tea.
Her phone stayed silent. Vitaly didn’t call once all day. He didn’t ask how the trip went, how she felt, whether she needed help. Natalia dialed his number herself.
“Yes?” His voice sounded irritated.
“Vitaly, I wanted to tell you… The funeral is tomorrow at two in the afternoon.”
“So what? I told you I’m not coming.”
“That’s not it. It’s just… Mom left a bank deposit. In my name. Eight hundred thousand.”
Silence hung on the line. Then Vitaly cleared his throat.
“Eight hundred thousand? Are you serious?”
“Yes. And she left me the house.”
“That’s… that’s great news!” His tone warmed noticeably. “Listen, maybe I should come after all? Help with the paperwork?”
“No need. I can manage.”
“Natalia, why are you acting like I’m a stranger? I’m your husband—I should be by your side in a hard moment.”
Natalia gave a bitter little laugh. In the hard moment Vitaly hadn’t wanted to be anywhere near her—but as soon as money was mentioned, he suddenly remembered his marital duty.
“Vitaly, the funeral’s tomorrow. If you want to come, come. If not, stay home.”
He didn’t come. Only relatives and neighbors were at the funeral. They saw Yelena Pavlovna off with a proper repast, kind words, and the tears of those who truly loved that simple rural teacher.
Four days later, Natalia returned to the city. The key turned in the lock with difficulty—apparently Vitaly had forgotten to oil it again. His dirty sneakers lay in the hall; a jacket hung on the rack, thrown any which way. Natalia walked into the living room. Beer cans were piled on the coffee table, the ashtray overflowing with butts. Couch cushions were scattered on the floor.
The kitchen was no better—heaps of unwashed dishes, dried-on food on the stove, the trash can overflowing. Four days. In just four days her absence had turned the apartment into a pigsty.
Vitaly was lying in the bedroom with his face buried in his tablet. He didn’t even look up when he saw her.
“You’re back? I’m hungry.”
Natalia stood in the doorway and looked at her husband. Unshaven, in a wrinkled T-shirt, greasy hair. This was the man she had spent fifteen years with?
“Vitaly, did you wash the dishes even once while I was gone?”
“I didn’t have time. Work, you know.”
“Today is Sunday.”
“So what? I have a right to relax too.”
Natalia went to the kitchen in silence and started washing the dishes. Her hands moved automatically, but her thoughts were far away. About her mother, who had worked all her life and saved money for her daughter. About her husband, who in four days hadn’t bothered to take out the trash. About the thirty more years of a life like this that lay ahead…
That evening something happened that Natalia hadn’t expected. Vitaly came home from work with a huge bouquet of scarlet roses. He was also carrying a bag from a pastry shop—Natalia’s favorite éclairs.
“Darling, I’ve been thinking… I behaved like a selfish jerk. Your mother died, and I didn’t even support you.”
He put the flowers in a vase, took out the éclairs, brewed tea. His face was full of deep sorrow and contrition.
“Forgive me, Natasha. I should have been there. Yelena Pavlovna was a wonderful woman. Remember how she brought us together? At that village fair where you were helping her sell pickles.”
Natalia remembered. Back then Vitaly had been a different person—cheerful, attentive, ready to do anything for her. Where had that man gone?
“You know, I was thinking… The money your mother left needs to be handled properly. We should go to the notary, to the bank. I can take a day off and go with you. It’s a lot of money—what if some scammers try something?”
“Thank you, I’ll manage.”
“Natalia, come on. I want to help. And we should decide what to do with the money. Maybe invest it in something smart? I have a friend who does investments…”
“Vitaly, this is my mother’s inheritance. I’ll decide what to do with it.”
He frowned but quickly composed himself.
“Of course, dear. But you understand that in a marriage everything is shared. We’ve been together so many years, paying the mortgage together…”
“Which you took out in your name,” Natalia reminded him.
“That’s just a formality! The apartment is ours—you’re registered there…”
“Registration and ownership are not the same thing, Vitaly.”
He got up from the table. The mask of the caring husband started to slip.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying you won’t share with me?”
“I’m saying I’m not making any decisions yet. My mother just died. Give me time.”
“Time?” His voice rose. “When I needed money for a car, you didn’t ask for time! You said right away there was no money!”
“There really wasn’t. We were barely managing the mortgage.”
“But now there is! Eight hundred thousand! We can buy a car and take a proper vacation instead of that shabby resort like last year!”
“That ‘shabby resort’ was all we could afford. And even then I saved for it for half a year.”
Vitaly slammed his fist on the table. The vase of roses wobbled.
“Enough! I’m your husband! I’m entitled to half of everything you get!”
“No, you’re not. Inheritance is not community property.”
“Where did you get that?”
“I googled it on the bus. And I also found out I can file for divorce unilaterally.”
Vitaly froze. Then he slowly sat back down.
“You want a divorce?”
“I’m thinking about it. Vitaly, look at us. We’re strangers. You didn’t go to my mother’s funeral because you didn’t care. And now you’re putting on a show of grief only because of the money.”
“That’s not true! I really am sorry! It’s just… I’m under stress at work, I didn’t think…”
“Don’t lie, not now. You didn’t care about my mother, you didn’t care about me. Only the money matters to you.”
Vitaly jumped up, his face turning purple.
“How dare you! I’ve slaved away for you for fifteen years!”
“Slaved? Have you washed the dishes even once in all these years? Cooked dinner even once? I work no less than you do, yet all the housework falls on me!”
“That’s women’s work!”
“And what’s the men’s work then? To protect, to support? Where were you when I needed support?”
He grabbed the vase and hurled it against the wall. The roses scattered across the floor; shards of glass sparkled on the parquet.
“You ungrateful woman! I dragged you out of that village and made something of you!”
“From the village? I studied in the city, found a job in the city! What do you have to do with that?”
The quarrel was spiraling. Vitaly shouted, flailed his arms, sprayed spit. Natalia looked at her husband and wondered—how had she lived with this man for so many years? Endured his outbursts, excused his rudeness as fatigue, believed that someday things would get better?
“You know what?” Natalia stood up and went to the hall. “Leave.”
“What? This is my apartment!”
“No, it’s the bank’s apartment that we’re paying a mortgage on. I pay half. But if you want, we can call the police. You can tell them how you throw vases.”
Natalia took Vitaly’s keys from the hook and held them out to him.
“I’ll pack your things and put them out on the landing. Take them and go.”
“You have no right!”
But Natalia had already opened the door. Out on the landing stood their neighbor, Nina Vasilievna—she’d come out when she heard the noise.
“It’s all right, Nina Vasilievna. Vitaly was just leaving.”
The elderly woman looked Vitaly up and down, then glanced at Natalia and nodded.
“If you need anything, call me. My Petrovich is home; he’ll help carry the boxes.”
Vitaly realized he’d lost. He didn’t dare start a fight in front of witnesses. He grabbed his jacket and bolted out the door.
“You’ll regret this!” he yelled from the stairs.
Natalia closed the door and leaned against it. Her hands were shaking, but she felt astonishingly light inside. It was as if the heavy stone she’d been dragging for fifteen years had finally fallen away.
The next day she packed his things into boxes and did, in fact, set them out in the hall. She changed the locks and told the concierge not to let Vitaly in anymore.
A week later she filed for divorce. In the petition she stated that there were no children and no property claims. Vitaly tried to make a scene in court, demanded half of her mother’s deposit, but the judge explained that inheritances are not subject to division.
Another month on, Natalia completed all the inheritance paperwork. The eight hundred thousand went into her personal account. The house in the village passed to her as well. She took a vacation and went there—to go through her mother’s things and put the homestead in order.
Standing on the front steps of the family home, Natalia looked at the sunset. A warm August evening, the scent of apples from the orchard, neighbors’ voices drifting from afar. Peace. For the first time in many years—peace.
Her phone rang. Vitaly’s number. Natalia declined the call and blocked the contact. The past was in the past. Ahead lay a new life—without humiliation, without pretense, without having to endure the indifference of a man who had sworn to love and cherish her.
Mom had been right when she said happiness isn’t in money, but in having the freedom to live the way you want. And now Natalia finally had that freedom.
